Feeding Buckbeak
by Gryffindorscholar
Summary: So... What's up with the rats?


A list of Important Things  
  
1.I do not, have never, and never will own anything in the Harry Potter series. In fact, this is my first attempt at Harry Potter fiction.  
  
2.Being my first attempt, it's probably not very good. Tell me how I can make it better, or how not to change it  
  
3.~These are thoughts, how I assume Animagi talk.~ "These are spoken." Everything else is narration.  
  
This will, hopefully, be a set of short stories, mostly about the Marauders. This one came about when I was rereading Order of the Phoenix, and saw something I missed before.  
  
Feeding Buckbeak  
  
~And. Fifty!~ I think, snaring the last.  
  
Rats have a distinctive taste. It is almost worse than sewage, but not quite. And most squish before they crunch. Not my favorite snack usually, but I can put up with them in some cases.  
  
This one struggles for a few seconds before its backbone crunches between my teeth, far too easily for me. I want a fight, a change of pace. I at least want an interesting hunt! But no, it's just catch, crunch, flick, and it's in the bag with the rest of them, while more watch from the shadows, their beady eyes glinting blackly, barely distinguishable from the refuse that surrounds them.  
  
These things are huge. City rats, born in trashbins and grown to the size of large cats. They stand and fight their enemies, which makes it easier for something my size to catch them and kill them quickly. They're also perfect for my purposes.  
  
~Your days are numbered,~ I think at them, disgusted. ~Every one of you will be dead before I find another place to hunt.~  
  
The stupid things just stare, not understanding that I will be their death, as I was their fellows. They are not used to being prey, and so they act differently. ~We'll keep away~ they think, ~but we'll watch carefully.~ "Look for a weakness," they whisper to each other. "Wait for an opening."  
  
~There won't be one,~ I tell them. ~You will die.~  
  
Then I change back, the form shifting as easily as if it had been born with the ability. The smell of magic finally drives the buggers away. They are not fleeing creatures, but the sight and smell of something totally alien to them in this muggle trash-heap sends them scurrying for their dens.  
  
On two legs again, I tie off the bag and sling it over my shoulder. It's covered in blood now, not so much from what I've done to them as what I couldn't help doing. Canine teeth puncture, it's what they're made to do, and I can't kill them without using my teeth. Still, they'll serve, and these are my work robes. A little blood won't make a bit of difference on them.  
  
It's a matter of a few seconds to open a portal home. I don't bother cleaning the rats, as I've chosen my hunting grounds carefully. These are 99% disease free rats, with a minimum of fleas. A nice outbreak of the plague is just what we don't need at the moment. I just waltz up the stairs from the cellar, trying to avoid everyone.  
  
If Moony knew what I feed Buckbeak, he'd go off his rocker. I'd be at the receiving end of a long tirade, involving "psychological implications" and "emotional transference." Bilge. I simply feed Beaky something manageable, in great supply, that he likes.  
  
And if I enjoy doing it, so much the better.  
  
I'm lucky that Molly hasn't mentioned it though. When she sat on them a few weeks ago, I thought that she'd probably harp on it for years. I guess a bag of dead rats in the parlour doesn't measure up to some of the other things in this house.  
  
The door to my mother's bedroom is huge. Hand-carved too, from the best wand wood, and ornamented with the Black family crest. It must have cost a fortune, and I really don't want to know how she could afford it. It took us three weeks to break into that room, and there's a large crack straight through the motto. Tou ours Pur, it reads now. I like it better this way.  
  
Poor old Beaky, stuck up here in this room. It's not nearly big enough for him, and all of our attempts at putting an enlargement charm on the inside have failed. I only have LEAVE to exercise him twice a week, and that's not nearly enough. He's getting fat.  
  
I bow, he bows, and then he looks at me expectantly.  
  
"Aye Beaky, I know. You're hungry. I swear, a bit more of this treatment and we'll both be fat and lazy."  
  
He blinks, not understanding, and stares at the bag.  
  
"Alright, you pig. Alright."  
  
I put the bag beside me, untie it, reach in, and pull out a rat by the tail. I spare one look at Buckbeak, who is practically drooling, and unfocus my eyes. This way, it is easy to believe that the thing is wrigling, twisting, breathing,  
  
Missing a toe.  
  
I heave it into the air "For James," I mutter, focusing enough to see the details as Buckbeak swallows it whole.  
  
I pull out the next one and do the same thing, "For Lilly."  
  
"For Harry."  
  
"For Moony."  
  
"For me, you bastard."  
  
And after a while, I run out of rats. 


End file.
